


An Untimely Death

by xxSparksxx



Series: And Then There Were Two [10]
Category: And Then There Were None (TV 2015)
Genre: Explicit Language, F/M, offscreen murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-13 16:42:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11764077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxSparksxx/pseuds/xxSparksxx
Summary: "Picked up a newspaper today. Thought you might like to read it.”Vera is instantly alert. “Oh?” He nods again, and once again Vera sees the predator hidden behind his eyes. He’s on the hunt, he’s watching her for something. She wonders what could have happened to make him show it to her now. There’s nothing she’s done, no lie she’s told. There’s only…Suspicion flits through her mind. She wonders if it has finally happened, the thing she set in motion months ago. She’s never told him about it. He’s never asked. As far as Vera knows, Philip hasn’t given the lodging house a second thought since they moved out of it, into this house.





	An Untimely Death

**Author's Note:**

> It’s been a long, long time since I wrote Vera, but I always promised I wasn’t abandoning her! Thank you to everyone who’s waited so patiently for more :) 
> 
> And thank you to mmmuse for beta-reading.

By the fourth of January, Vera has already decided that she dislikes winter in New York. 

The snow has turned to slush on the streets under a perpetual drizzle of rain. The sky is unrelentingly bleak, with no hint of blue. All of Brooklyn seems to be covered with dirty sludge, grey and wet and gloomy. No matter how careful she is, her feet get soaked when she walks to and from work. In the mornings she has to change wet stockings for dry, in the tiny lavatory provided for the employees of the surgery. There’s nowhere to hang the wet ones, so they sit all day, damp, in her handbag. 

And the _people_. The people are the worst part of it. Almost every single person she comes into contact with seems to be full of complaints that Christmas is over. Vera will be glad when Twelfth Night is over; at least then the last, lingering traces of festive decorations will be swept away, and with them the last reminders that the holiday is over. And if it isn’t Christmas, it’s the war, the news from Europe relentless and the people around her either fearful or scornful. Vera is unspeakably weary of it all, of this general mood of dull grievance that seems to have overcome her neighbours and work colleagues. It acts as an irritant, permeating her skin, burrowing beneath her masks and making her fractious. She has to add that extra bit of strength to her daily lies, as she goes to work and talks to Peggy and Mattie or one of the doctors or any of the patients. She has to pretend she feels the same as them, to pretend that she, too, is worried or dull or gloomy. She has to reflect their feelings back at them. 

Vera has only been back at work for two days, and it’s startling to realise how much freedom she has enjoyed, on those days away from other people. How much freedom Philip has given her and how much she’s taken. Freedom to be herself, to let go of the masks, the pretences and the lies. She had hardly stirred out of doors, between Christmas and New Year. Philip had, a few times, but Vera mostly stayed in the house. She had decorated the sitting room, painted the walls and stained the floor, and found herself relaxing into the _safeness_ of it all. Her home. Hers, and Philip’s. A place where she can be entirely herself. A place where she _must_ be entirely herself, for Philip allows nothing else. The freedom of it has been both terrifying and intoxicating .

Since the argument on Christmas Eve, she has felt something new in her relationship with Philip. He seems to have a renewed patience for her, even when she stumbles and lies and fights him, as she has done more than once over her time off work. She is _trying_ , she is trying to break through her instincts and habits and let him in, because he’s never yet turned away from her and that means something. But old habits die hard, and more than once he’s had to push her. Not just to be honest, though that’s always expected. He’s pushed her out of her hiding spaces, refusing to let her even be silent when he senses that there is some layer to pull away. But he’s done it patiently, almost gently, without the sharp, precise barbs that he is so capable of dispensing.

His obvious patience has made her feel ever more able to trust him. She’s still aware of how dangerous that is, of course. She never forgets it. But she _wants_ to forget it, wants to forget that if she opened herself up to him fully, he could wield such terrible power against her. She wants to trust him, for in all these long weeks and months he’s stayed with her. He’s stayed whenever a new layer is peeled back, whenever a new part of her twisted nature is revealed to him. He’s stayed. He has told her that he’ll always stay. Vera can’t believe that yet, but she _wants_ to. She wants to believe him, wants to trust him, wants to tell him…

But she won’t. She won’t tell him. She does trust him in many ways, more than she had four months ago, but not that far. She _can’t_ trust him that far, she dares not. She remembers thinking, right at the beginning, that he might be someone she could love, as much as she is capable of love. She isn’t sure she likes being right. Philip has the ability to hurt her, now, so very deeply. If he ever left her…Vera has recovered before, when she’s lost people she wants. But this is different. This isn’t only about want. There’s a level of _need_ there, too, and that scares her enough to remember to keep this secret hidden deep, deep below the surface.

She’s weary when she reaches home tonight, wants nothing more than to kick off her shoes, peel off her stockings, and curl up on the couch with a book. She expects the house to be empty, for Philip had warned her he would likely be late this evening, or even absent all night. But there are lights on, spilling out from behind the kitchen curtains, and she’s pleased to see it, when she walks up the street. The knowledge that Philip is at home after all gives her a little extra energy, an extra bounce to her step as she mounts the steps to the front door. She unlocks it, pushes the door open, and then pauses. She hears laughter, coming from the kitchen, and men talking. Not just Philip, and not the radio. There is someone else there, too.

They have never invited anyone into the house, before. Not the neighbours, not her workmates. Nobody. This house is theirs, and Vera has loved that. Their own space, private and secluded. Set apart from the rest of the world, as she is set apart by her twisted nature. But there is somebody in the kitchen with Philip. Somebody else is there. 

Vera takes a breath, straightens her back. She finds her mask again and slips it on. The part of Mrs Lombard is easy enough to play; it’s become second nature to her. More than second nature, sometimes. Sometimes she even believes the lie herself. But a mask it is, a part to play, and she’ll play it for whoever has been invited into her home. She steps inside the house and shuts the door behind her.

“Philip?” she calls. “I’m home.” The laughter fades away as Vera removes her hat and coat. She hangs them up and turns to find Philip in the doorway. He’s dressed in his striped suit, all slick and polish, and Vera wants to take the suit off him piece by piece. She lets her gaze linger, and Philip smiles at her, a shark’s smile, all teeth and dangerous edges. He knows what she’s thinking. Of course he knows; he always does. 

“Evening, darling,” he drawls. “Good day?”

“It could have been worse,” Vera says. “I didn’t expect you back. Has something gone wrong?”

“Plans changed a bit, that’s all,” Philip explains. “We had some time to kill, so I thought we’d come back here for some decent coffee.” He pauses, his gaze on her sharp and assessing. Vera lifts an eyebrow, jerks her head towards the kitchen. She doesn’t need to speak to ask the question. “Wilson and Morgan,” he says. “You met them, at the bar.”

“So I did,” Vera agrees. Wilson was the younger one, she remembers, all brash bravado. Wounded in the knife fight, like Philip, but more seriously. Morgan was the other one, older, more temperate and more polite. He’d told her to come back and have a drink on him, but she hasn’t. Philip was stuck at home for a few weeks while his foot healed, and she wouldn’t have ventured to the bar without him, even if she had spared a thought for Morgan’s offer, which she hadn’t. 

There are other questions she would like to ask, about why they are here now, but she won’t voice them, not while they’re in earshot. Perhaps later she’ll be able to ask why he invited two strangers into their home. Perhaps he’ll even answer. If she’s learned nothing else about Philip, it’s that he has a reason for everything, and will only share it with her if he chooses. That sometimes strikes her as unfair, when he demands everything from her. She can’t read him, the way he can read her. She can read other people, can mimic their emotions and their responses, but it is, after all, only skin deep. She cannot _feel_ as others do. Philip hides himself away, and she thinks his emotions are dulled and dampened, but even so, he’s not like her. He doesn’t have to watch and copy in order to fit in. So she can’t read him, because she can’t penetrate beneath his skin the way he so easily slips under hers. She must rely on his words, and to a degree on his actions, to know what deeper motives move him. 

But if it is unfair, it is not an unfairness she can do anything about. Vera has no intention of wasting time wishing it otherwise.

“Is there any coffee left?” she asks, letting the other questions go. “And do you all want supper? I think there’s enough.”

“Plenty of coffee, Mrs,” calls one of the men. It’s Morgan; she remembers his accent. Philip steps aside to let her into the kitchen before him, and she sees the two men sitting at the kitchen table. Her kitchen table. Something dark twists inside her heart and mind at the sight, at the _intrusion_ they present. But Philip has invited them in, and so she has to pretend she doesn’t mind. “But don’t put yourself out, we don’t need feedin’,” Morgan adds. He rises as Vera enters, and after a moment he shoves at Wilson, who follows suit with reluctance. Manners aren’t a virtue of his, she remembers. So young. So full of his own importance. 

They’re both dressed almost as smartly as Philip, pressed suits and clean shirts and ties done up properly. She wonders what kind of a job requires such clothes. She rarely asks Philip what his jobs entail. It isn’t that she’s bothered by it, by violence or theft or murder. She just doesn’t particularly care what he gets up to when he’s out working, as long as he comes back to her. There are other things she would care about. She would care if he got caught, and taken away from her. And she would care if he ever came back smelling of perfume, or with a smudge of lipstick on his face or collar. But he never has, not once since they’ve been together. Just as well; she’s not sure how either of them would survive it.

“If you’re certain,” she says. “Hello, Mr Morgan. Mr Wilson, your wound did not get infected, I trust?” She goes to pour herself a cup of coffee, and leans against the counter to drink it. Morgan and Wilson sit down again. Philip doesn’t join them; he comes to stand beside Vera, an arm sliding around her waist. Vera thinks he must know these men a little better than he had, when she’d met them before, to let them see him like this. Not vulnerable, not weak, but…human. Or else he has some other motive. Vera will take her cues from him.

“No, ma’am,” says Wilson. “No infection. It healed up proper.” He looks resentful at the enquiry. Perhaps he dislikes being reminded that he’s not invincible. Vera glances up at Philip and lets him see her hidden laughter. There’s a smile lurking at the corners of his mouth, but she thinks it’s not amusement that makes him look like that. There’s something darker in his eyes, and the twist of his lip. Something expectant. Predatory. If they were alone, she would know what he intended, with an expression like that. But they’re not alone, though she highly doubts either Wilson or Morgan can see the predator behind Philip’s smooth exterior. So Vera is curious to know why Philip is letting her see it. There is something happening here that she cannot see. A game, perhaps. She can’t tell, and Philip is giving her no further clues.

“I’m glad,” she says to Wilson. “I trust you’ll be more careful in future.”

Morgan guffaws. “Careful, this one? Not likely. Nah, Mrs,” he adds, when Vera looks at him and raises an eyebrow, “we take care of him, don’t you fret.” Wilson mutters a retort, but Morgan only laughs again, and drains his coffee cup. Vera pours him some more without bothering asking first; they’ll need it, she imagines, if they’ll be out most of the night. “Thanks, Mrs,” Morgan says, smiling his broad, gap-toothed smile. “I hope you don’t mind Lombard bringin’ us back here to your home. Without an invitation, like. S’a nice place, this. Respectable.”

“My husband’s friends are always welcome,” says Vera, dryly. Philip pokes his thumb against her side, just a little, as if to tell her that he thinks she’s overdoing it. But Vera flashes him a warm, innocent smile. She’s Mrs Lombard, young and pretty and loyal. There’s nothing else for anyone to see. Vera plays her parts too well to draw suspicion from men like these. Though they’ve seen a little of her toughness, these colleagues of Philip’s, still she knows what men generally see when they look at her. Especially now, when her sharp edges are hidden away, tucked beneath her office clothes and her demure hairstyle and her careful ordinariness. Neither Morgan nor Wilson are looking at her with suspicion. They don’t suspect her of being anything but honest when she extends this hospitality to them. They see nothing but what she wants them to see. 

“Shall I take myself off upstairs?” she suggests. “Do you have things to talk about?”

“It’s all decided,” Philip says. “No need for you to go anywhere.” He nods his head at the table. “Picked up a newspaper today. Thought you might like to read it.”

Vera is instantly alert. “Oh?” He nods again, and once again Vera sees the predator hidden behind his eyes. He’s on the hunt, he’s watching her for something. She wonders what could have happened to make him show it to her now. There’s nothing she’s done, no lie she’s told. There’s only…

Suspicion flits through her mind. She wonders if it has finally happened, the thing she set in motion months ago. She’s never told him about it. He’s never asked. As far as Vera knows, Philip hasn’t given the lodging house a second thought since they moved out of it, into this house. It’s not a lie if he’s never asked; she would have told him, if he’d ever suspected. She would have told him everything. She would have been glad to, for she knows how he would react. The fierceness with which he would fuck her, _possess_ her, if he found out about what she’d done. He loves to hear her lies, when they’re directed at anyone but him. He enjoys hearing about the things she has done. The lies and the accidents and the darkness inside her: these things provoke such ferocious lust in him. He calls her his liar and fucks her hard and bites at her skin, and Vera loves every minute of it.

She hasn’t withheld this from him for fear of his disapproval. She simply…hasn’t told him. No lie of omission, no lie at all. She hasn’t even been sure that her actions would come to fruition, after all, and there would have been no point saying anything to Philip if not. If she had heard of a result, she would most likely have told him, just for the reaction she knows it would provoke. But it doesn’t matter what she might have done in other circumstances, because Vera thinks he knows now. He has found it out by himself, somehow. That’s why he’s looking at her like this. Like a hunter waiting for its quarry to be revealed. 

But Vera isn’t prey, not for him or anyone else. She gives him a kind of submission, in many ways and in many circumstances, willing or otherwise. She lets him lead her; she has found great pleasure in pleasing him and in winning his praise. And she has no _choice_ but to submit to him when he peels back her layers and exposes her secrets, though sometimes she hates him for it. But none of that makes her _prey_. 

She sets aside her coffee cup and Wilson passes her the newspaper, folded open to the fourth or fifth page. She glances over the article headlines, looking for what she expects to find. News of the war, news of a local council decision, news of some Hollywood starlet coming to do a play in New York…and there it is. A small article, halfway down the fifth page. Just before the list of births, marriages and deaths. An obituary notice, padded out with some journalistic hand wringing about the sadness of people who die without family. Mrs A.T. Flynn, boarding house proprietor, member of the local church choir, found dead in her home just after Christmas after a brief period of illness. No next of kin found, burial to be paid for by her church. 

If Vera were alone with Philip, she would smile. She would smile widely, baring her teeth, all sharp angles and satisfaction, and she would look up at him and let him see all she felt about this. She would let him see her malice and her pleasure. Then she would lie. Not to him, for he’d never allow it even if she wished to lie about this. No, she would spill out the lies, the innocence and the shock, the emotions that she would have to pretend, if Philip were anybody else. Just as she had that day on Soldier Island, when he’d shoved her up against a wall and made her spin her lies before he would fuck her. He’d do that again now, Vera knows. If they were alone.

But perhaps anticipation will make the end result all the more satisfying. Perhaps, she thinks, that’s why Philip has done it like this. It sends a shiver down her spine, but she doesn’t react outwardly, doesn’t show in any way that she’s affected. Philip will likely be able to tell, but not these other men. 

“Oh dear,” she says. Soft and sorrowful, distressed at the news she’s just read. She looks up at Philip, full of feigned compassion and unhappiness. “How dreadful. What a shock.” Philip watches her, and she thinks that nobody else would be able to see the glint in his eyes and the promise he’s making her. “That poor old woman.”

“Something wrong, Mrs?” Morgan asks. Vera puts the newspaper back down and gestures at the article. 

“The landlady of the lodgings we were in, when we first came to New York,” she explains. She takes up her coffee cup, drains the last of it. Philip is watching her still. She can feel it, physically feel the weight of his gaze on her. “She died. Just after Christmas.” She stares down into the bottom of the cup, carefully calculating. How she goes on will depend on how they respond, these two men. Tears would be too much. But will she talk, will she grow quiet, will she pick this reaction or that from her repertoire, from her years of watching and mimicking how other people show sadness…

She is a chameleon. Philip called her that, on Christmas Eve. His little liar. She changes her skin to suit her audience. 

“That’s too bad,” says Morgan. He pulls the newspaper towards him, peers down at the article. “Mrs…Flynn. Irish?”

“Mm-hm,” Philip acknowledges. “Lovely lady. Bit too religious for my taste.” Wilson chuckles, as if Philip’s said something funny, but if there’s a shared joke there, it’s not one that Vera is privy to, and Philip doesn’t respond to it. “Still, it’s terrible shame for her to die so suddenly like that. She was in perfect health when we were there, back in October. Wasn’t she, Vera?” 

Vera risks a glance up. “Quite,” she says, still soft, still innocent, still pretty young Mrs Lombard feeling a bit upset about the news. “Perfectly well. Does anybody want some more coffee?” The pot is empty. It gives her an excuse to turn her back on Philip, on the room, and lets her smile, just briefly. She fills the kettle and sets it to boil and _smiles_. 

“Well, sometimes old folks go quick,” says Morgan. “They catch somethin’, and off they go.” He’s perhaps trying to offer comfort. He hasn’t worked it out, yet. Perhaps he won’t. But Vera has a feeling about Philip’s motives, this evening. She may be wrong, and certainly she won’t admit anything, but she has a feeling. She knows him well enough to know he’s got no innocent intentions, this evening. 

“Oh, very quick,” says Philip. There’s a laziness in his voice. Patience wrapped up in amusement. “Only I get the feeling it wasn’t like that for Mrs Flynn. Was it, Vera?” There’s a sudden, pregnant silence. Vera glances sidelong at Philip. He looks straight back at her. It doesn’t matter what she says; he knows the truth. But she wonders why he seems to want Morgan and Wilson to now the truth, too. Morgan seems a decent enough man, rough around the edges but at least polite. Wilson is quieter this evening than the last time she’d met him, less prone to letting his mouth get him into trouble. But she wouldn’t trust either of them as far as she could throw them. She hasn’t got this far in life by _trusting_ people.

“Well, it must have been,” she says. “What else could have happened? A sudden illness. It does happen, you know, Philip.”

“But it didn’t, did it?” he challenges her. 

The kettle boils. Vera busies herself with making more coffee. Behind her, at the kitchen table, she can hear a slight scuffling, as if one of them had reached out and shoved at the other. Most likely Morgan, chastising Wilson before he can speak. Philip is waiting for an answer, as expert as ever at wielding silence as a weapon against her. But this time, Vera is playing a part. She won’t let the mask slip when there are others here, and Philip ought to know that. He _does_ know that, she’s sure, which means she’s right to think there’s some game being played here.

She glances at him, her back still to the kitchen so her expression won’t be seen, and she lifts one eyebrow, just a little. Philip echoes the gesture. 

“Did – did you kill that old woman?” Wilson asks. Vera turns around, goes to the table, pours Wilson another cup of coffee and tops up Morgan’s cup. Wilson is staring at her, mouth open, eyes wide. It’s an unattractive look. She doesn’t bother responding to him. Morgan’s mouth is firmly shut, lips pressed together so tightly there’s white around them, and his eyes are as wide as his younger colleague’s. Shock, Vera deciphers. Shock, and disbelief perhaps. A little awe, in Wilson’s voice and expression. She likes that. She _loves_ it. To be seen for the power she contains, rather than the exterior that so many people have taken as truth. Even if all they glimpse is a little, even if she must, of course, deny it all…even then, the awe is welcome. The trepidation she sees in Morgan’s eyes is very welcome. She wants to say yes to Wilson, wants to turn that shock into respect, into fear, into something tangible and lasting. To be _seen_ …

But she must deny it. There is no alternative. And there is Philip to see her, Philip who has seen her since the very beginning. To Philip alone will she admit the truth. He doesn’t fear her, and never will, but she believes that he respects her, and that will be enough. Vera isn’t accustomed to even that much; it will be enough. 

“I have no idea what you mean,” she says, pouring herself another cup of coffee. “How on earth would I kill anybody, Mr Wilson? And why should I ever do such a thing? Really.” She gives him a chastising look, as if to suggest he should be ashamed of himself for asking. As much school mistress primness as she can summon. It works on him, as she’d thought it might; he sinks down in his chair a little, shoulders hunched, head ducked down. 

“How indeed,” Philip remarks. Vera puts the coffee pot down and shakes her head at him, letting a smile tug at her mouth. 

“Now, really, Philip,” she says, pretending to scold, letting a smile tug at the corner of her mouth. Scolding and teasing both. “You’ll have Mr Morgan and Mr Wilson thinking I’m some sort of dangerous criminal.” 

And there it is, suddenly: the game revealed to her, in the way Philip smirks and the acknowledging dip of his head. He wants them to think of her like that. He wants these men with whom he works to think of her as dangerous. Powerful. For whatever reason, whether for his own amusement or some power play in his world or even, perhaps, to gratify her…whatever the reason, this is his goal. This is why he has brought these two men into their home tonight, after reading that article in the newspaper. He must have read about it, and guessed that Vera had done something to Mrs Flynn, and so brought these men to bear witness when he confronts her with it. 

Not that it’s a confrontation. Far from it; Philip is being quiet and careful, even with his pointed questions. He isn’t stopping her lying, isn’t dragging the truth out or exposing her twisted inner workings to their guests. They have had confrontations before, she and Philip, and Vera would never count this as one of those. Philip is merely…raising the possibility, and nudging Vera into a denial that he then suggests is doubtful. Nothing confirmed. Nothing to incriminate either of them. But enough to make it plain that Morgan and Wilson should not blindly accept it, when Vera says Wilson’s accusation is foolishness. 

“Mrs,” says Morgan. Then he falls silent. Wilson is still staring, his mouth still hanging open. They seem not to know what to believe. Perhaps the truth seems too incredulous to them. The truth, or at least the suggestion, that Vera might have somehow, slowly, killed sweet old Mrs Flynn, who sang in the church choir and had no relations to miss her. Or perhaps they believe it, and so have found themselves in deep waters suddenly, where they’d expected shallow. And Philip isn’t saying anything to reassure them, he’s saying nothing either to deny what she’d said or to agree with it. He’ll have them thinking she’s a dangerous criminal, she had said. Yes, she knows, he will have them thinking that. He _wants_ them to understand, to believe, that she is dangerous. 

Vera won’t admit anything, of course, for though neither of these men could prove anything, it would still be playing with fire. She won’t admit anything out loud. Only to Philip, and only when they are alone. But now that she knows Philip’s game, now that she knows the lay of the land, she knows how to respond. 

She lifts her cup, sips the coffee even though it’s still too hot. Then she lowers the cup again, cradles it in her hands, and lets a smirk slowly creep across her face. She doesn’t look at anybody. She keeps her eyes fixed firmly upon the floor. She pictures Mrs Flynn, dying in that boarding house, her singing silenced forever. It will have been mostly painless; Vera isn’t a sadist. She’s many things, but not that. Some of her...accidents have caused pain, it’s true, but it’s never been something that brings Vera pleasure. If she’s been able to do a thing painlessly, she’s not gone out of her way to make it otherwise. So she’d been careful in her choice, with Mrs Flynn, who after all had nothing Vera had wanted. She hadn’t needed to get Mrs Flynn out of the way, as she had with Cyril. It hadn’t been about that at all. For once, it hadn’t been about getting something that she wanted. She had excused herself by thinking of Mrs Flynn’s dislike of her, her rudeness and her appallingly early rising hour. But the truth is much more simple.

The truth is that Mrs Flynn had reminded Vera of things that she would much prefer to forget. 

And so Vera killed her for it. Slowly, over the course of a few months. One cup of tea at a time, the tiniest of amount of poison ingested with each brew of tea leaves. Not the tea leaves she gave to visitors: Vera had made sure of that. Mrs Flynn had had a special tin, just for herself. Some particular brand of her own, too expensive for just anyone. And into that tin had gone the poison, stirred in carefully, indistinguishable from tea leaves. It had been a risk, of course, but Vera had felt it a small one. And after all, nobody would suspect a woman who had left the boarding house over two months before.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” breathes Morgan.

“You gotta be kidding,” Wilson says, his voice squeaking a little. “You – you – you never killed anyone, you’re just a –,” Vera glances swiftly at him, but it’s not her sharp look that quells him. It’s Philip, who pushes himself away from the kitchen counter, making a show of checking his watch. 

“Time to go, gents,” he says. His voice is deceptively mild. Wilson swallows whatever term he had been about to apply to Vera. He tugs at his collar, sliding two fingers between it and his skin, as if it’s too tight suddenly. Vera watches him do it, meets his eyes, and lets him see her smile for a second or two longer. Then she hides it all away, wipes her face free of it and discards her coffee cup. She doesn’t want any more.

“Do watch out for Mr Wilson,” she says to Morgan. “I’m not a trained nurse, you know. No bloodshed tonight, please? Philip knows how much I dislike my sleep being disturbed.” Morgan nods dumbly. Vera smiles at him, a wholly different smile now, polite and innocent. Young, pretty Mrs Lombard again. “Good evening, Mr Morgan. Mr Wilson.”

“I’ll meet you outside,” Philip says to them. It’s a clear dismissal, and neither of the men waste any time in responding to it. They scramble out of the kitchen. The front door opens and then, a moment later, it slams shut again. Vera and Philip are alone. She takes a deep breath and lets it go, and that’s all she has time for before Philip is crowding close to her, pulling her against him and then kissing her, hard. Vera wraps her arms around him, pressing even closer. There’s no time for more than kissing, no time for more than a few exchanged words, though she wants more, _aches_ for more. She wants to feel his approval spilling over her skin, warming her malformed heart. She wants him to put bruises on her wrists from holding her down, wants his mouth on her breasts and his fingers in her cunt. She wants _everything_ , but there’s no time.

“You are a fucking piece of work, Vera Lombard,” he growls against her lips. “Were you even going to tell me?”

“If it worked,” she whispers. “If you had time now, I’d tell you how I did it.” He snarls at her, and Vera laughs, breathless, giddy from power. Philip scrapes his teeth across her jaw, not biting but nearly. Teasing her with it. Taunting her with it. “I’d tell you,” she promises. “I will, I’ll tell you everything. But they’re waiting – Philip –,” He’s backed her against the counter, trapping her against it, and if they had more time, if they had _any_ time, she’d let him take her like this. Up against the counter, electric light overhead making everything just a little too yellow, neither undressed, his trousers shoved out of the way and her skirt pulled up around her waist. Fierce and frantic and heated. 

“I’m almost tempted to let them go without me,” Philip mutters into her neck. He’s breathing a little heavily, but only a little. His arousal is containable, or at least he can pretend it’s so. Vera tilts her head to one side and shudders when he kisses her, utterly gently, at the pulse in her throat. Then he sighs, and when he lifts his head, his regret is clear. “But not tonight. And I won’t be back before morning.”

“It’ll keep,” she says. She laughs again. “Mrs Flynn isn’t going anywhere, after all. And neither am I.” There’s a flash of some emotion in his face then, gone too quickly for Vera to put a name to it. But it makes her pause, and it makes her more sober. “If you had time,” she says, “I’d ask why you wanted them to know.” 

“It’ll keep,” he echoes her. Vera huffs, irritated, and Philip chuckles. “It’s for your safety as much as anything, darling,” he says. “I’ll explain tomorrow.” He ducks his head to kiss her again, unexpectedly tender. “You did beautifully,” he murmurs. “Just what I wanted.” Vera is warmed by his praise despite herself. She chases his mouth when he pulls away, demands a deeper kiss from him. Philip obliges, but only briefly. Then he lets her go and steps back, and Vera is left wanting. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says. “Get some rest, hm? You look tired.”

“Be careful,” Vera says, and covers her mouth with a hand. She didn’t mean to say that. It’s not something she has ever said before, not when she’s _meant_ it. But she means it now. Startled, she stares at Philip. She wonders anew at how he can draw such truths from her, even when he doesn’t intend to. Philip’s mouth is curving into a smirk. Vera almost wants to claw it off him. Almost. She has mostly gone beyond the point of hating him for what he does to her. It’s become too comforting, to have somebody in the world who knows her.

She’s walking a dangerous path and there’s no end in sight. 

“I always am,” is all Philip says to her. “Don’t worry about me.” And then he’s gone, off outside to join his criminal companions, and Vera is left alone. Her stockings are damp and there are empty coffee cups to wash up, but all Vera does is stand in the kitchen and wonder what she is becoming. She wonders what she is changing into, and whether she can stop it. She wonders whether she _wants_ to stop it. She wonders how she will ever survive if she loses Philip.

Then she kicks off her shoes, peels off her stockings, and abandons internal inquiry in favour of tidying up the kitchen. It’s a foolish thing to wonder about, what might happen to her if she ever loses Philip. It’s foolish, because the answer is simple. She must never lose him. 

She must never lose him.


End file.
